


You’re A Mean One, Mr. Holmes

by TAHewes



Series: Conversations with M [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alone, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Gen, Grinchatude, How The Grinch Stole Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:36:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8894434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAHewes/pseuds/TAHewes
Summary: A Mycroft Holmes Christmas story set post The Reichenbach Fall but pre-The Empty Hearse





	

_Many Londoner’s in London liked Christmas a lot!_

_But Mycroft Holmes, sitting alone in his office, did not!_

_Mycroft hated Christmas and the entire tedious season!_

_Even his Personal Assistant never quite knew the reason._

Mycroft Holmes had no need to look up as Anthea, his personal assistant, walked into his office at exactly 7 P.M., barely 2 hours after she had left for the day. He could tell by her loud, purposeful stride and by the rapidity of her breath that the curse words where, no doubt, on the very tip of her tongue. 

A surreptitious glance to the bottom right corner of his computer screen told the rest of the story. 

Hmm? 

Christmas Eve? 

He paused for a moment from his task of orchestrating troop movements in the southern portion of Afghanistan to sniff delicately. 

Yes, there it was, definitely Christmas Eve: the lingering aroma of gingerbread and mulled wine still clung cloyingly to her coat. 

He did look up at her then and immediately deduced that he had summoned her from her sister’s home. And there could be no doubt that her four-year-old niece was just about to do something significant judging by the camera shaped bulge in her left coat pocket. 

Based on the expression on her face he thought it best to quickly get down to the business of running the world. He cleared his throat and straightened himself in his chair. 

“Ah, yes, you are just in time. There are several persons throughout the globe who have used the distraction of the holidays to be rather naughty. Shall we see just how many Christmas mornings we can ruin?” 

“You mean, other than mine?” 

He was instantly smug. 

“Come, come, my dear, let us not pretend. You detest both your brother-in-law and your sister’s cooking. And that niece of yours, who you are always going on about, will eventually come down from her sugar high, only to whinge and cry for the rest of the evening. Just admit it: I did you a favour.” 

Anthea started to say something cutting to that, but prevaricated for a moment or two before huffing in frustration. 

“I hate it when you’re right,” she groused. And as she left the office to hang up her coat, he heard her say, “But you are still a Grinch!” 

*~^~*

At midnight, Mycroft Holmes, sitting before his laptop, in the kitchen of his London home, alone, with a plate of re-heated curried chicken and rice and a large glass of Vouvray, thought about the word Grinch once again. 

He knew a great many things, however, he had to admit to himself that he had no idea what a Grinch could possibly be. 

A quick search on his computer and there it was, after a few clicks, the entirely of the awfulness was laid before him by the miracle of _YouTube_. 

That particular incident had taken place several years ago, on another Christmas Eve, but now, he was remembering that animated film as if he had watched it just yesterday, especially after zooming the camera lens closer to focus in on her face. 

On her _Cindy-Loo Who_ of a face. 

On her tear-streaked sad little face. 

. . . 

. . . 

. . . 

. . . 

. . . 

Oh, bugger! 

God, he hated leg-work. 

So, it was a very fortunate thing that he had other people to do the leg-work for him. 

And now, with Anthea sent on her way, he had only one phone call to make. And a more disagreeable phone call, in light of the current day, was not to found in all of Great Britain. 

*~^~*

The tyres had screeched loudly as the Jaguar quickly pulled away from the lane in front of the large, unassuming cottage in Kent, leaving Molly Hooper staring, with embarrassment, into the face of the elderly man standing before her. 

Anthea had been vague, having turned up at her flat that very afternoon, telling her to pack a bag for a restful weekend in the country at the insistence of the British Government. 

Molly had no thoughts of protesting. Visions of a B & B with a roaring fire, 600-count sheets, and room-service on someone’s else tab, danced about her head. She did, she admitted, need this time away, especially after the breakfast she’d just endured with John Watson. 

His eyes had been puffy, his face had been blank with sadness, and she found herself very nearly spilling a certain secret. She was just leaning in to whisper it into his ear, when the power in the café had mysteriously cut-out and the fire-suppression system had activated, forcing her and John to separate and return to their individual homes to get out of their ruined clothes. 

“Was that Mikey?” asked an older woman bursting from of the front door of the cottage, indignant and obviously in a strop. “The least he could do was come in considering tomorrow’s his birthday.” 

“Now, now, Violet, you know very well that’s why he hates Christmas.” And turning towards Molly he added, “Our sons, idiots, the lot of them.” 

Molly’s confusion must have shown on her face because the man sought to immediately put her at her ease with a smile. “You must be Miss Hooper; we were told to expect you.” 

“I—I don’t—” 

“My wife—” he then went over and gently removed her from the front step. “Violet, my dear, you are frightening the poor girl—come and meet Miss Hooper properly.” 

“It’s Molly--call me Molly.” 

“Yes, Violet, come and meet Molly.” 

“But what was Mikey thinking to not step in for just a moment?” 

Molly looked down the lane and then back again. 

“There wasn’t a Mikey, just an Anthea, although I don’t think that’s her real name. And I heard her call the driver Trevor, not Mikey. So—” 

“She means Mycroft. Our son, Mycroft Holmes.” 

“Oh? I-I didn’t—no one said I was coming here—I thought—so, you are Mr. Holmes’ parents? I-I don’t know him all that well, I am a friend of Sher—I mean, I was—a friend of—” 

The stuttering and the backtracking caused Violet’s face to erupt into a beaming smile. 

“You’re Sherlock’s friend? We’ve never met any of Sherlock’s friends. I can’t tell you how delighted we are to have you here. So, when was the last time you heard from him? Mikey says he’s currently in Denmark.” 

Molly could only stare, her mouth agape: They knew! They knew that Sherlock was alive! 

Mr. Holmes, senior, easily read her thoughts. 

“Yes, we know, my dear; we’ve always known. I think that’s why Mycroft sent you to us; for you to have someone to talk to who was in on the secret, as well.” 

Molly, having been overcome with the weight of the secret pressing in on her for weeks and weeks, suddenly felt that weight lifted. And looking from one smiling face into the other, she immediately burst into tears. 

*~^~*

At midnight, Mycroft Holmes, sitting before his laptop, in the kitchen of his London home, alone, with a plate of re-heated sausage and potato and a large glass of Bordeaux, studied the live surveillance feed coming to him from his parent’s front parlor. 

Mummy was bringing Miss Hooper a cup of Christmas punch, while his father was banking down the fire place for the night. Just then, his mother whispered something into Molly’s ear and pointed in the direction of the _supposedly_ hidden camera, before they all waved. 

Grinning, Molly then scribbled something down on the back of a scrap of wrapping paper and walked towards the camera. She held it up. 

`You’re a nice one, Mr. Holmes. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.  
Happy Birthday. Forever your friend,  
Molly.`

Friend? 

Forever? 

Mycroft felt a strange sensation and rubbed at the center of his chest. He then got up, drank a glass of water, and rubbed at his chest again. 

Indigestion? 

Yes, definitely indigestion. 

*~^~*

_And he deduced for three hours, till his deducer was sore._

_Then Mycroft thought of something he hadn't before!_

_"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "isn’t quite such a bore."_

_"Maybe Christmas... perhaps... means a little bit more!"_

_And what happened then? Well, Anthea did say,_

_That Mycroft’s small heart grew three sizes that day!_


End file.
